You don’t mark it as a problem at first. You call it a phase. A busy streak. A Leo thing.

It happens often enough to feel familiar, not often enough to feel alarming. Conversations where you nod more than you speak. Where your thoughts line up politely and wait their turn… and never get it. You don’t interrupt. You never do. You let him finish the story, then the add-on, then the joke that circles back to him again.

You tell yourself you’ll talk next time. Next time comes, and it looks the same.

You’re not miserable. That’s the trick. You learn where to place a “yeah,” when an “mhm” keeps the flow moving. You don’t stop listening, you stop engaging. It’s easier that way. Less work. Less disappointment when your words bounce off the surface and sink while his ride along the waves.

And you don’t say anything. Because nothing is wrong, technically. Then, on the night you finally decide okay, maybe now, but then he shows up grinning.

Leonardo "face man" Hamato has a date planned.

He’s proud of it, too. You can tell. There’s that spark in his eyes, that confident tilt of his shoulders like he’s already halfway through the story of how well this is going to go. He doesn’t ask where you want to go. He doesn’t need to.

Because it's Run of the Mill.

Of course it is.

The same booth. The same pizza. The same way he annoys Señor Hueso. He talks about the first time he came here, the time something ridiculous happened, the joke that always lands because he remembers it landing. He’s not cruel. He’s not careless. He’s just… comfortable. In his memories. In his voice. In the version of the world that orbits him.

"Hey!" You're snapped out of your thoughts at the sight of him snapping his fingers at you.

"Welcome back, you've been spacing out for a while there."